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A faint sound carried from the front of the library. Someone had dropped a book, and a quiet laugh followed, but it felt like it was miles away compared to the tension that pressed in between us.

I leaned forward and matched his tone. “Then you should consider giving me something real to work with.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” He stared at me in disbelief.

“It means you should stop dodging the questions and stop acting like this is clean when it’s clearly not.”

He bristled at my reluctance to give in. “Repeating that same take won’t magically make it true.”

“And just because you refuse to believe it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Trace sat there in silence, but the tug of war behind his eyes told me everything I needed to know. He was struggling to accept what I was saying, but that just showed how sad the situation really was.

“You’re doing this at my expense,” he said, most of the fight gone from his tone.

“I would do it at everyone’s expense if it meant I could expose the truth.”

He let out an unsteady breath and dragged his fingers through his hair. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I am,” I insisted.

The real question was: was that really true? Was I actually paying attention to what was being said? Or did I miss what was happening between the lines?

“All you’re doing is writing what you think is right.”

“That’s my job.”

“To me, football isn’t just a job, and what you’re busy doing has nothing to do with journalism.”

Those words caught me off guard because I didn’t know how to take them or what to make of them. Was he insulting the field? Or was this more personal?

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a student,” he said, sounding completely defeated. “This is an assignment. But instead of seeing it for what it is, you’re throwing people under the bus and using your grade as an excuse.”

I sat a little straighter. “I’m doing what I was told to do.”

“You were told to write about the team. But you’re chasing something you wish for instead of what is real.”

“And you’re ignoring the truth because you wish it were different.”

“Goddammit.” He smacked the table with a fist, but controlled the sound despite his rising temper. The last thing we needed was to attract attention. “This isn’t a game, Dakota. You’re going to ruin people’s lives.”

“You’re in denial, Trace.”

So far, everything I told him was true, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have some points of his own. Many lives would be ruined if my theory proved right. Could I live with that, knowing I did it for a grade?

If I were honest, the grade stopped being my driving force a long time ago.

“You don’t care about who gets hurt as long as you get your story,” he said as he got up.

I pushed my chair back slightly. “That’s not fair!”

“Neither is what you wrote.”

The silence that stretched between us was tight and charged. It felt like we were having a conversation where all the words kept flying past each other. We both had points, but neither was willing to consider anything but our own perspective.

“Prove me wrong,” I challenged him. “I’m not going to soften it, and I’m not going to pretend everything is fine when it isn’t.”